


Specks of Dust

by Leviafan



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, M/M, Post-Seine, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviafan/pseuds/Leviafan
Summary: No good deed goes unpunished, or so it seems to Javert. His attempt to dig up the whereabouts of Valjean's family instead digs himself into trouble.





	Specks of Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sir_Bedevere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/gifts).

Since the river and Valjean’s illness they’ve fallen into a sort of pattern, almost comfortable. They live around each other mostly, careful to avoid touching the vital without total avoidance. Because despite the gulfs of difference and unknowing between them, they both recognize the loneliness. Each feels he deserves it, but not the other.

Javert at least can do something. Even this small sense of power fits him badly now; he wears it anyway. Takes it with him to paw through records, never knowing whether what he searches for is there at all. He’s looking for specks of mud. They’ll have dried up years ago and blown away. He knows it but still wastes hours every day. Doesn’t tell Valjean, who doesn’t ask. Always so damned careful… or maybe it’s that he doesn’t care. Which Javert would prefer, he doesn’t know.

Success doesn’t mean good news. As soon as his eyes reach the first words— he’d expected to fail. That would have been easier. Now what? In a fugue Javert folds the paper into his pocket. He’ll bring it back, but he needs this. Proof, maybe. Valjean won’t want to believe it. But even if he’d be better off, Javert has to tell him.

The place feels smaller now with just the two of them. It’s always been small, but somehow with two fewer people it seems harder to stay out of one another’s way. This time he runs into Valjean fresh from the garden. An awkward attempt at a smile greets him, so he fixates on a particular patch of dirt clinging to his hands. He won’t be smiling soon enough.

“I found your sister’s family. Found out what happened to them.” The moment he says it, Javert knows he has to meet the man’s eyes. He’s not become that much of a coward. And part of him wants to see. Still wants to see him suffer. At its most charitable angle, neither saints nor monsters can suffer. The apprehension, the pain in his eyes, that will prove he’s only human. But of course Javert doesn’t want charity.

“How?”

Javert nearly laughs at the ridiculousness. The rest of him knows it puts off the inevitable. That’s why. “By looking. Here.” He produces the scrap from his pocket but doesn’t hand it over. Now he’s delaying. But also… he shouldn’t have to find out by cold letters. “She’s dead. Ten years ago. The records don’t say why but it hardly matters, does it?”

Valjean stares at the paper in his hand. He looks more hollow than anything. This must be confirmation of fears he’s lived with since the bagne, so the grief can’t be raw. Javert knows that doesn’t make it easier. You’d think so, but not really.

The bereaved wants and needs a softness from the deliverer of bad tidings. Without it, his fingers crumple the paper as if trying to bend it into a better shape. The gaze that rises to meet Javert’s is pained, yes, but also angry. That surprises him. Maybe the both of them. “Of course it matters.”

Ten years melt away in a vivid recreation of a deathbed they had both stood by. Javert is not quite ready to be chastened, but he thinks he sees why this should strike harder even than the individual death itself. “Well, it doesn’t say.”

“No.” Is he questioning Javert’s honesty? Trying to rebel against death itself? A scathing observation on the state of bureaucracy? “What about her children?”

“I found nothing about them.”

This time it’s Valjean who stuffs it into his pocket before shoving past. Suddenly Javert is alone. He doesn’t deal with it well. In the early days just after the river he’d wanted nothing more than to be alone. Now in the silence he’s forced to confront how much he’s come to depend on it. Like a crutch, he might have said.

Valjean’s walks usually have no particular direction. He purposefully blends in. His best chance would be a guess, and besides, something tells him he wouldn’t be welcome. So he paces a groove in the hall rug, hands behind his back, head down. It’s a posture of thought, one he’d often associated with doubt. Still true but he’s at least on speaking terms with doubt now.

This feels different. More personal. Since the river he has time for that. His discharge was painful knowing it hadn’t been his choice; the prefecture couldn’t just hire lawbreakers. Terribly, for him the cause of death did matter. Having survived, he had committed a crime. So he has no work to distract him— no investigations at least. ‘Why the carrots are small this year’ doesn’t count, although it has managed to preoccupy Valjean.

By dinner time discomfort turns to unease, possibly classified as worry. He still hasn’t come back. Javert makes himself a meal of bread and cheese; the simplicity is familiar and comforting, but just now Valjean’s concoctions would be even more so. At a loss and irritated by that fact, he has an early night. It’s not the same, this silence. Dead. With another’s, Valjean’s, presence it’s alive with possibility even though neither takes advantage often. They could speak, whether or not they do. It’s harder to address a ghost.

The next morning Javert feels like a ghost himself. After restless sleep and a dream he doesn’t quite want to remember, he takes some comfort in the habits of readying himself for the day. He has a purpose; underneath his concern this is something welcome, and unknown in recent months. Even if it has to come with difficulty. He knows Cosette won’t look kindly on his delivery… although if he’s been to see her, she probably already knows.

Either way, calling on a baroness still puts a furrow in Javert’s brow. She’s her father’s daughter but also has her father’s wealth, and some of the trappings are there. He runs the gauntlet though, waits— standing— in the sitting room until she comes in, a far cry from the tiny child he’d caught only a glimpse of. This young woman is self-assured and polite… for the time being.

“Monsieur Javert,” and he tries not to let the truth wound; “I would offer you something but what you’re looking for I don’t have.” Damn, she knows. A relief in some ways though. Except for the fiery look she’s turned on him. “Couldn’t you have found a better way?”

“I doubt I could have done worse,” he acknowledges grudgingly. Then just when it seems he’s finished, he adds: “At least can you tell me, is he safe?”

“Safe?” she repeats, confused.

“Yes, safe.” Even as he clips the words Javert realizes. She may know this, but not  _ that _ . How close Valjean had crept to the precipice. “Just tell me where he is.”

“If you can’t find him, don’t you think it’s because he’d rather you didn’t?”

_ That’s what I’m worried about, _ he thinks but doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to dig himself deeper. “I can’t change your mind?”

The shake of her head confirms her again as Valjean’s relation. For multiple reasons he’s relieved to step back into the street. At least the man had been all right when he’d come here. That would have to be enough.

It’s the waiting that nearly kills him; he wishes it would. Valjean’s garden is weeded and watered, he’s read the books on the shelves for as long as he could stand. Nothing is left for him. By the second day his resolve to let the man have his space weakens. By the third, he’s begun to make inquiries. Paris is a big city but he knows Valjean. Someone somewhere will have seen the beggar giving alms.

After several days’ doggedness he finally picks up traces in the Marais. He should have checked there first but he’d thought… well. Thought it was too obvious. Valjean knows he knows because he  _ told _ Javert: Rue de l’Homme Armé, number 7. Unless, unless he  _ wants _ to be found. It’s all too convoluted for Javert’s liking but he goes anyway. Doesn’t knock, just tries the door. It creaks open. “Valjean!” then regretting this indiscretion he calls again, “Jean!” as he sweeps in. A quiet neighborhood. Probably no one noticed. And what would they see? Nothing to stick their noses into. Just two ordinary people. Their former selves mean nothing except perhaps to them.

At first he thinks, dead end. The last room he finds his quarry; this time no air of satisfaction, just a quiet breath released, fists uncurled. Valjean sits on the cot with head rested on folded hands. Light from a small high window catches the brilliance of his hair so that it almost glows. And then… he glances up. Strangely Javert is glad to see the anger still there.

“Hiding here won’t solve anything. I’ll go if you like, but you should come back.”

“This is closer to Cosette— as you pointed out, the only family I have left.” There’s that sharp edge; Javert welcomes with the satisfaction of righteousness.

“You have me.” The words come as if by their own accord. He won’t take them back, but he looks offended on his own behalf. “Some prize, eh?” When Valean still says nothing he keeps going. “Do you want me to apologize? Fine. I’m sorry. I should have softened the blow, and I shouldn’t have said what I did. Now will you come back?”

Valjean’s turn to look startled. Did he think Javert incapable of apology? Improbable, yes, but he can say the words. “You want me to?”

“Cosette would want you to.” He thinks that would be more persuasive. He’s aware though that it skirts the question. “And yes, I do. It’s not the same. The plants need someone to read to them, and I’m concerned about the long-term effects of M. Swift. I think they prefer Defoe.”

That gets a small smile if not a laugh. “You read to them?” He’s always voiced his disdain for Valjean’s habit. “You are right though. I should come rescue them if that’s your choice of material.”

“I tried that Rousseau you love so much. I just couldn’t. Swift is sensible underneath all the bizarrity.”

Valjean gets to his feet. “I’m glad you know to look beneath the surface of things.”

_ And people, _ Javert adds silently to himself.

“Will you come?”

After a long terrifying pause eased only slightly by the pensive look in Valjean’s eye: “Yes.”

A tension exists between them now. Javert knows it all too well and is afraid. Valjean does not know, and is (perhaps a little morbidly) curious. Their previous circumstance hasn’t changed; if anything the eggshells are layered more thickly as they dance around the unmentionable. Their routine, however, has expanded to include the garden and at the end of the day, silence together as they read. Javert may have begun the book for the sake of the vegetables. Now he leaves that for the older man, but still chews through several pages of Swift a night.

He can’t escape how his attention wanders above the spine to watch Valjean read. There is a hint of serenity he only sees otherwise amongst the tomatoes. Half envious, half pleased, he is mesmerised by it. Periodically he tears himself away, back to his book. When he crawls into bed the image still lingers, even into his dreams. (He does dream now.)

One night, a week after Valjean’s return, he breaks. “Have you read this?”

In astonishment the white head lifts, revealing startled eyes. Unlike the prey of before there is neither fury nor fear in them. “Not yet. Why?”

“Oh. It’s just—” he waves a hand as if swatting away flies. “Strange. I’ll have to finish it, but it feels like a waste of time.”

“Education is never a waste.” As the calloused palm closes the book, Javert catches a glimpse of the cover.

“That’s not education. It’s a novel.”

“You can still learn from fiction.”

“ _ You _ can.”

“Then why read  _ Gulliver’s Travels _ ? That’s fiction.”

“That’s why I don’t like it.” This short exchange seems to be enough; Javert goes back to the book he dislikes and continues to read. He’s started something though. When next he looks up Valjean is leaning forward in his chair. The pose is reminiscent of the garret of a week ago and yet miles apart. This time he seems the opposite of defeated. “What?”

“You’re a clever man. Why an inspector?”

If he expects that to land well… “Before that I was a guard.”

“I remember.” There’s a flash of his anger. Javert is reassured by it even as a jolt of nerves attacks him. This man could snap him in two— and doesn’t. “Why a guard then?”

“Because it was easiest, and better than the streets.” Anticipating the question to follow Valjean’s frown he adds, “Easiest because I was already there.” The fire nearby crackles into the brittle silence, doing its best against the vestiges of spring chill. “I told you once my parents were criminals, do you remember that too? I hated them.”

“So… youthful rebellion.” That is a fully formed joke, confirmed by the twitch of lips blooming into a mischievous grin. Javert tosses his head back in a short bark of laughter, startling them both while it relaxes the atmosphere.

“It’s as close as I ever came.” After a few beats he tilts his head questioningly. “What about you?”

Valjean eyes him hard, then relents. “I wasn’t the wild man you’re picturing. I took my father’s place in the orchards, kept my head down, tried to survive. Same as you.”

“I recall poaching in your record.” Instinctively his hand shoots out to seize Valjean’s wrist before he stands. Seconds later the limb is wrenched from his grasp, but Javert rises too. He suddenly feels as small as he is in comparison to this man. “Do you deny it?”

“No.” With a breath he scoffs, perhaps at himself as much as Javert. “You would condemn me for a loaf of bread. For a hare you must want the guillotine.”

“It’s only the truth,” he says through gritted teeth. “Why be so defensive if you were justified?”

“I don’t say that. But if I was wrong, society had its faults too. You still can’t see it.” He turns away, shoulders stiff. “I wish you could see it.”

“I am trying.” His eyes flicker downwards. “I have no other choice.”

“If you resent my interference, I shouldn’t have let you stay so long. Javert, I release you from whatever obligation you feel you owe me. Go. Find your own way.”

Javert’s quiet, uncertain “Tonight?” finally brings Valjean round to face him. It had been easier looking on the back of a devil than the face of an angel. “No. Stay the night, and I’ll help—”

“No.” Even he doesn’t know immediately which part he’s denying. “I don’t want to go.”

Of everything this shocks the most. Valjean stands frozen in limbo, leaving him the perfect target. Javert’s rough kiss lasts barely long enough to register. The look of satisfaction he wears drawing away seems out of all proportion. “There. I couldn’t let you go without knowing.”

Valjean’s face is a morass of questions. Javert ignores it all with a hint of his prior ability to remain blinkered and strides to his bed. He leaves room for another body but all that occupies the space is his own, sweaty and restless.

Next morning he rises early. Might as well if he needs to pack. His belongings are meager enough to wait for a verdict though. The house is empty; the garden is not. He finds Valjean kneeling amongst the marigolds. From the set of his shoulders he’s heard Javert’s approach but doesn’t glance up.

When a clear “Well?” gets no response he adds, “Should I go?”

Valjean continues weeding. “It would be best, yes.” As he shakes the soil from an invader’s roots his eyes finally travel to meet the speaker. Javert is squinting from the sun and this gives him a jolt of familiarity. “For now. I think we both need a holiday from each other.” As if it’s a job. It certainly feels like work most days. “But I’d like if you would still visit.”

“I meant everything last night.” Scrupulous and blunt, he wants to be sure they understand each other. As well as they can.

“I know.” Finally Valjean forces his aging bones to rise and dusts off his hands on his trousers. “We should try being friends first. I’ve never had a friend. Pardon me for saying so, but I suspect you haven’t either. Colleagues don’t count unless they’ve seen your rooms.”

Javert’s ears burn. After last night, that could have more than one interpretation. “Very well then. You’re right.” He doesn’t want friendship. Or rather, he wants friendship and more. His patience runs at a low ebb these days, but so do his choices. He nods shortly. “Friends. I’ll send word by gamin once I have an address.”

Valjean keeps seeing brief glimpses of who the man is and how he came to be. Now that he’s started looking, he can’t stop. Had he once been a gamin, or had that merely been his worst nightmare? “Take some vegetables.”

“Put some in my pockets if you must.” He doesn’t know how far he’s going, and the notion of walking half the length of Paris with an armful of squash is unappealing. True to form Valjean fills his coat pockets. He also takes a marigold he’d beheaded accidentally and tucks it into Javert’s buttonhole. His smile is nearly as sunny as the flower, and both hurt to look at.

With a whole day to search Javert finds new lodging (Valjean had filled his pockets with more than just food, the sly dog). That evening by a fire he shouldn’t be able to afford, he carefully places a wilted marigold between two pages and shuts the book on Gulliver’s travels. It’s the first time it has been any use to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Some bittersweet fluff with a hopeful lilt at the end. I hope you like it!


End file.
